


last rites

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya said Yes to Gendry, Badass Sansa, Canonical Character Death, Don't touch me I'm not okay, Gen, Heartbroken Sansa, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Sansa has bastard children, Sansa refusing to take bullshit from Jon or anyone else, Tormund Giantsbane is the new Lord of Last Hearth, We Stan 1 (One) Soft Ironborn Squidling Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-26 14:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18718657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: After the battle, the survivors have to decide where to send the bones of the fallen. It is the honourable custom in Westeros to return them home, even if they were your enemy in life.But where was Theon Greyjoy's home? And who will keep the memory of him alive, if Sansa cannot retain control of Winterfell and the North?(Also addresses that bullshit line about Jaime and Brienne being the reason Sansa survived Ramsay!)





	1. Chapter 1

The named dead of Houses they knew had been laid out beneath shields, standards or other objects in the sigil of their House. But the kraken on Theon's leathers, black and brittle with his blood, was his only proclamation.

“Forgive us our remission, Lady Stark,” said Maester Wolkan, “But we could not find an Ironborn shield with a kraken, for Lord Greyjoy.”

Sansa swallowed thickly. She sat at Theon’s feet, as she had all night, for last vigil. He was laid out in her father’s hall, upon a table they had once supped and japed at as children. They had spent their last night together in this world the same way.

At least until she had led Theon to her bedchamber. If she was going to die, Sansa did not want Ramsay’s hands to be the only ones her skin had ever known. And she was bonded more deeply to no other man than Theon. Her only regret was that Theon had been unable to seed a bastard in her belly that night. They would have created beautiful children, if the gods were kinder.

“No matter,” she croaked, her voice dry and rasping from her prolonged weeping.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, and she did not move as she announced; “Theon will be buried here, in the crypts, as they are mended.”

She could not quite believe how foolish they had been, willingly burying themselves in a chamber filled with the dead, when their enemy had the power to re-animate dead men. It was a wonder her own ancestors hadn’t shredded her apart. When Winterfell’s dead began to attack, she was glad for the first time that Robb’s statue stood on an empty tomb.

“As you wish, Lady Stark,” said the maester with a respectful bow.

Sansa should have anticipated it would not end so simply. Her solitude with Theon was interrupted by far too many guests than was proper, but then any were free to visit the dead during the last vigil. Sansa focused her attention on the painted stones atop Theon’s closed eyes. But that did not block out the voices of the intruders on her grief.

“My lady has been sitting vigil all night,” said Brienne, “She needs rest.”

“Aye,” came Jon’s voice. “Wolkan says she ordered him to be buried here.”

“I did,” Sansa spoke up, irritated at their lack of respect.

Couldn’t they see she desired to be alone? She and Theon deserved that much. They had only had each other, once. It was all she had now. She was alone in wanting to separate the North from the Iron Throne, it seemed. Jon could no longer be trusted to fight for House Stark above House Targaryen, and Arya only spoke of killing Cersei. Bran cared not for the affairs of the realm.

“Forgive me, Lady Stark,” said Daenerys, “But I thought only Stark men lay in your crypts. I did not know Lord Greyjoy was your kin. I offer my condolences. I did not know him well, but I knew him to be a good man.”

“He saved my life,” said Sansa, finally consenting to look at her uninvited guests. The Lannister brothers stood a little apart from Jon, Daenerys and Brienne.

She wanted none of them. But in that moment, Sansa sought to redress a wrong she had let lie, for the sake of keeping Jaime Lannister alive long enough to fight the dead. She could not refute Brienne’s mistake then, but she could now. Her honour demanded no less.

“You said that I would not be alive but for you, Brienne,” said Sansa, slowly rising to her full, formidable height.

“I did,” Brienne agreed softly.

“You believe it, I think,” Sansa continued, “But you are entirely wrong. I do not owe my life to you, nor Ser Jaime for armouring you. Nor Jon, for helping me secure Winterfell and allowing me to be the one to kill my husband.”

Daenerys started at that, her eyes flickering to Jon in disbelief. Apparently, she hadn’t been told that tale. It was of no matter now. Tyrion seemed equally shocked. Sansa was unsurprised her tentative allies had been told pretty lies about how gentle she still was.

“I owe my life to Theon, a hundred times over,” she said, her eyes returning to his beloved face. “He took beatings for me, stood between me and my husband, when Ramsay’s blood was up and he wanted to torture me. He killed Ramsay’s mistress to keep her from killing me. He held my hand as we leapt from Winterfell’s battlements together, into a snow drift that could have killed or crippled us both. He lead Ramsay’s hounds away from me as they harried us through the snow. You found us then, but even had you not, Theon would have laid down his life to get me to the Wall. To Jon. He saved me, not you.”

“You’re right, Lady Stark,” said Brienne sadly, “I was lucky to find you in the Wolfswood. I saw Theon Greyjoy kill a Bolton man to secure your freedom. I know how valiantly he always fought for you.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence at that. Sansa wondered if they had intended to ambush her, and if Brienne was feeling terrible guilt over her misplaced attempt to assist her new lady. 

“Sansa…” Jon said, with a heavy sigh, “You’re right that Theon defended you honourably. But Theon was Greyjoy by birth. A Stark also, by choice; but his sister deserves to bury him with his own ancestors.”

Sansa snorted unattractively at that. “Theon hated his ancestors. He once told me his namesake was the Hungry Wolf, Theon Stark.”

“The Ironborn don’t bury their dead,” Tyrion added, somewhat unhelpfully, if his intention was to aid Jon’s cause, “They toss them into the sea, to be at one with their Drowned God.”

"Sansa-" Jon tried one last time.

“He was a Stark,” Sansa snapped, “Unless you want me to have your bones sent back to Dorne, when you inevitably sacrifice yourself again, for your new Queen to seat herself upon Aegon's hideous chair.”

Jon reeled at that, shocked by her ire.

“I loved him,” Sansa concluded.

“I know,” Jon replied, “But you were not alone in that regard. His sister loved him also.”

Sansa screwed up her face, offering Jon a look of absolute irritation at his dense refusal to grasp her meaning.

“No, Jon,” she elaborated, “I loved him. Repeatedly. In my bedchamber.”

Jaime Lannister grinned broadly at that, badly concealing a laugh in his remaining hand, at the look of pure disbelief on Jon’s face.

“Oh,” Jon squeaked, faintly. “But-”

“Forgive me, your grace,” said Brienne, looking resolutely at Jon, despite how Daenerys bristled to hear Jon still addressed by that title, “But I believe the Lady of Winterfell has made up her mind.”

“I loved him,” Sansa repeated, turning once more to Theon’s prone body, clad in bloodstained leathers.

She had not let anyone undress him. They had no Silent Sisters in Winterfell, and she knew he would never have allowed anyone but her to see him unclad. She would not have him humiliated in death by loose-lipped bannermen, pawing at his scarred flesh for a cheap laugh.

Her tears returned then, thick and fast as she crumpled over him. She ran her hands through his soft hair, no longer wet from the snow he had been lying in, when she first found him sprawled out among the other Ironborn. Without care for her audience, who were led back out shame-faced, by Brienne, Sansa pressed a kiss to Theon's cold lips. And she cursed the gods she no longer believed in, for taking everything from her once more.


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s a shame Theon died,” said Arya, in that cold, contemplative way of hers. “Had he lived, you might have married him, and ruled the North through your claim. But as long as Jon is Warden, he will control the troops.”

Sansa offered her a look of stark surprise.

“You’re not the only one who grew up and learned a little of politics.” Arya sniffed. “I might not be a lady like you, but I know enough.”

“Soon to be Lady of Storm’s End, however,” Sansa teased, with a subdued smile.

“Don’t remind me,” Arya grumbled, “I said no, but he whined so much I had to take it back. He promised he wouldn’t try to change me. That I don’t have to be a proper lady the way that Mother was.”

“You might not be as diplomatic as me or Mother,” Sansa mused, “But you can be the fiery one; leave the diplomacy to Gendry and Ser Davos.”

The onion knight had agreed to serve as the steward of Storm’s End. Having stood beside Stannis Baratheon for so long, he knew the Stormlords who had turned to him after Renly died. And he had accrued years of knowledge of how an efficient keep was run at Dragonstone. He would be an excellent castellan, if they ever travelled. Knowing Arya, she would long to roam the Stormlands and explore the coast. Sansa was extremely pleased for her sister, and let it be known.

They sat in comfortable companionship, as they absorbed the knowledge of Jon’s birth together in the early evening.

“Do you think you could be with child?” Arya asked suddenly, intense and alert.

Sansa offered her a blank look. It was not common knowledge that Theon could not have begotten a babe on anyone, yet still she found the question shocking.

“He has only just passed,” she said, “Three nights hence. How should I know?”

Arya shrugged, “Mother always said Robb was conceived on her wedding night with Father.”

Sansa blinked, and wondered why Arya, who had never cared about babes or weddings or politics, should ask her such a thing.

“Why do you ask?” she demanded.

Arya shrugged, staring into the fireplace with a heavy sigh.

“If the Dragon Queen wins, and she likely will,” she began, “We might have to stand against her and Jon. It would be better if you had a child.”

“Jon?” Sansa repeated, blankly. She never thought to hear such words come from her sister’s mouth.

“I don’t mean in war,” Arya clarified, “Or at least, Jon would never come to harm from us. But we could close the North from the Neck onward. Refuse to pay taxes. Trade with Braavos for food, if we start building a fleet now. Ignore any laws they try to impose. We don’t war with them, so much as shut them out of the Kingdom.”

“The South has never much cared for the affairs of the North,” Sansa said, then snorted in amusement, “It says something, that the other Six Kingdoms can be termed ‘the South’, yet we alone are spoken of by our location. Rarely do men speak of the West or the East in such a way.”

“We have always stood apart,” Arya agreed. “Our way is the old way.”

“Yes,” said Sansa, and thought of all the things she had learnt of the new ways, from Cersei and Littlefinger and the rest.

 

*

 

Brienne led Tormund Giantsbane to Sansa’s solar the day before the men were set to head South. She wanted a night for him to celebrate his good fortune, should it come to that.

“You want me to live in that ugly castle, where a dead boy came to life pinned on a wall and tried to eat me?” he said, in his usual gruff way.

“Last Hearth has no heir,” Sansa clarified, “Bear Island has Lady Alysanne, but the Umbers are all gone.”

Tormund made a grumbling kind of snort in acknowledgement.

“You would be named Lord Giantsbane, and the smallfolk would work the land for you, in exchange for protection.”

“Protection from what?” he said, “We were the ones that used to attack them.”

“Wolves,” Sansa said, “Snow bears. They’re likely to come into the North, through the hole in the Wall.”

“I belong in the free lands,” he said, “The true North, where the air is clean.”

“You could travel there frequently. Last Hearth is very close to the Wall, and far cosier than Castle Black.”

He stroked his ruddy beard and considered her words.

“And I’d be a kneeler.”

“Only to me,” said Sansa, “And I know there’s a certain sort of kneeling men like to do for women, behind closed doors.”

He looked at her in shock for a moment then, before his wide mouth broke into a huge grin.

“I never thought to hear such words from Jon’s sweet sister.”

Sansa shuddered to remember it was no longer true. Jon was not her brother, and that was the problem. And the solution, she hoped. If Tyrion proved worthy of her trust. She hoped he would back the right heir, the true heir, in the end. But it was out of her hands now. She had done what she thought was right.

“This offer I make to you freely,” said Sansa, “You can say no, and we shall still be friends. But in truth, it is not the reason I asked you here tonight, Tormund.”

“Oh?” he blinked, and scratched at his great big bushy beard.

Tormund was a bear of a man, huge and hairy and intimidating to his enemies. But Sansa had spent time with him around Jon. She knew there was a kindness in him. She knew he could be trusted. So she opened her mouth, and she spoke.

“Men do not like following women, into war, or in daily life,” she said, “Not this side of the Wall, anyway.”

“You kneelers have lots of stupid rules,” Tormund said, “Eat with a fork, brush your hair, men can only lie with women! Pfft!”

Sansa smiled, subdued and amused by his utter disregard for propriety. It was refreshing, versus how men normally treated her now that she was Lady Stark, and Lady of Winterfell. Now they bowed and scraped and called her ‘my lady’, when once they had turned away from her screams when Ramsay beat her.

“I am the Lady of Winterfell,” she said, “And yet, soon enough they will expect me to marry, and my husband will be named for its lord, and rule in my staid.”

“Rule instead of you?” he frowned, “But you held the North when Jon was seducing the Dragon Queen, to make her come fight.”

She smirked at his frank description of Jon’s actions, despite how much Jon would protest that it was not that way at all. At least she was not the only one who could see the truth of it; how Jon had whored himself for Daenerys’ allegiance. She did not blame him. Sansa just wished Jon was more honest with himself.

“Yes,” said Sansa, “And now they expect me to give it away.”

“Tell those cunts no,” he said, “Tell them to kneel. You Southern folk like doing that.”

“I can’t,” said Sansa, ignoring the jibe. “Not unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless I have a child,” She said slowly.

“A babe?” he frowned, as though he could not see how a baby would help the situation any.

“Yes,” said Sansa, “Then they would not care, if I had a son, because he would rule one day. And they could be content to call me my son’s Lady Protector, holding the castle in his name. Even a daughter would help, as they could push their infant boys forward to be betrothed to her, and that would keep them occupied.”

Tormund stroked his beard, and nodded slowly. He was quiet for a long time, as though absorbing her words and the strange customs of the people he still knew so little about. Sansa did not blame him for his confusion. She thought she understood the South, but in the end, she had known nothing of the dangers surrounding her there.

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.” He said carefully.

“Because I need a child,” Sansa repeated, with a long hard look at the wild man from the far North.

Eventually, he grasped her meaning, and his bushy eyebrows slowly rose.

“Why-”

“A redheaded child,” Sansa clarified. “Theon’s hair was red, though many shades lighter than mine. Not many Northmen are anything other than brunette. There are scarce blondes, even. But two redheads do not have a brunette child.”

“Kissed by fire, the free folk call it,” he mused, “My people say it is lucky to be ginger. But what does it matter, if some dead man’s hair was red or not?”

“Because when people ask, that is who I must say their father is,” she clarified. “It is no personal measure of you. I know you are a warrior, and a good man.” 

“Hmm,” Tormund grunted, “But the boy, he wore the octopus on his clothes.”

“The kraken,” Sansa corrected, “The sigil of House Greyjoy, yes. A Great House, like House Stark. A bastard of both our lines would be held in higher esteem. And I loved Theon, and that is known.”

Tormund took a swig of the rich Dornish red Sansa had set out for him, in anticipation of this unorthodox meeting. She clenched her hands together anxiously, then purposefully set them upon the arms of her chair, to hide that anxiety.

“I’m confused,” he said, “Why a Northern Princess must come to a man of the free folk for a babe? Mightn’t the kraken boy have given you one already?”

“No,” said Sansa shortly, “And I cannot wait too long, or people will know it is not his.”

“If I agree to your crazy suggestion, I wouldn’t be able to claim my child.”

Sansa gave him a narrow look.

“Jon told me you have two daughters already. No, this child could never be yours. But you must know that I would cherish them, and keep them safe, and give them all the love and attention and wonders of this world. They would grow up safe in Winterfell, and one day hold the North.”

“Aye,” he nodded, “And I've probably a dozen more with wenches who never told me.”

Sansa said nothing, her heart beginning to pound in her chest, as she waited for his answer. It seemed unlikely he would agree to her mad scheme, and she knew it. She had always known it was a huge risk and a foolish idea. She did not have the wiles and the cunning of Cersei Lannister. She did not have a man that already loved her, willing to stand in the shadows while another man claimed the light of fatherhood.

At long last, Tormund put her out of her misery.

“I’ve never lain with a Princess before,” he mused, and offered her a huge, uncouth grin.

Sansa laughed, delighted despite herself. “I hear you’ve lain with a bear though. I doubt a Princess will seem so adventurous after that.”

“Ha!” the boisterous man chuckled, “So you’ve heard that story?”

“Not in detail,” said Sansa, reaching for the wine jug.

“Well, then. It was a dark, cloudy night, and the stars were hidden as I tried to keep my fire lit. When out of the darkness I heard a gruff panting…”


	3. Chapter 3

"Mother, watch me!" cried her son, waving at her from the courtyard.

Sansa offered him a loving smile, and a wave from her gloved hand, to assure him she was indeed watching with rapt attention from her position on the balcony above.

She adored the look of concentration on his face; the puppy fat there created in a darling little frown as he focused. With great effort, he drew back the string and loosed an arrow, his tiny pink tongue poking out from his lips. The arrow flew and skewered the hay target far from the centre, and Sansa watched her son's face crumple.

She was not surprised to come upon him later that same day, seated in a slump before the weirwood heart tree, poking at his booted foot with a twig.

"Mother says that Father was the greatest archer that ever lived," he lamented, "But I can't even hit the centre once."

Sansa rounded the tree and offered her unhappy boy a kindly look.

"Your father was wonderful with the bow, indeed," she confirmed, "And he did not become that way overnight. He had to work at it, for many years, until none could best him."

The lie was not heavy on her tongue. Ramsay Bolton did not count as a man. He was beast clad in human skin, and his skill in archery as he shot her brother in the back was never to be celebrated. Sansa would make sure of it.

"You're too impatient, Theon," said her pretty daughter, "I'm sure you'll improve with time."

Sansa swept her skirts to one side, to better seat herself beside her eldest child. The twins had been a wonderful surprise. She had resigned herself to never marrying, to secure her child's claim; never having more than one babe. It had been the only sadness of her pregnancy, which had been easier on her body than she had been told to anticipate. As though her children knew how well they were loved, and the gods were smiling on her at last, to allow her to keep them, with no scares of early blood.

Still, she had not known to anticipate twins. Maester Wolkan and the midwife had both been shocked when Sansa felt the unbearable urge to push again, and what followed was the head of her daughter, and not the afterbirth.

House Stark had been blessed with two tiny babes, both with tufted red hair and equally red faces. Sansa was utterly charmed by them, especially whenever she chose to dump them in Bran's lap, and watch her solemn brother attempt to be disaffected by the wriggling babes. They enjoyed clambering over Uncle Bran as they grew, and it was a frequent sight to see him being pushed about Winterfell by attendants, with one or both of the twins in his lap.

Sansa had followed the Mormont tradition of simply naming her children for Starks, and dared anyone to approach her about it. But since Jon became king, she was the Warden of the North, and none dared. They all loved her too much for her sound rationing after the War for the Dawn. Tormund had been as good as his promise, and took to Last Hearth with nary a word about their tryst.

It was easy for Sansa to forget the children were not Theon's in truth. When asked, she had told people the babe swelling in her belly belonged to the only kraken-wolf that ever lived. It had been long accepted by the North. And if any had heard rumours about Theon's lack of capability, they kept them to themselves, or else believed Ramsay's tortures to have been exaggerated.

But there was one person Sansa did not anticipate to take the issue to heart. Yara Greyjoy had ridden through Winterfell's gates two days past, fuming with rage.

"Lady Stark," she said through gritted teeth. "I have come to see my niece and nephew. Apparently."

Sansa felt her heart sink, but she did her best to keep her face as blank and pale as it had ever been since she returned to the North. Yara took issue with everything, from the children's education ("They should be trained with axes. And on ships!") and Theon's tomb, ("You had no right to keep him from the sea. Why does he rot here, so far from his kin?") and Sansa's deception most of all.

They had supped together the first night of her arrival, and Yara made her position on the matter quite clear.

"You Starks humiliate my brother, even in death," she hissed, slamming down her cup of wine.

Sansa leaned back in her chair and regarded her new opponent calmly. She was not afraid of harsh words and angry looks. She had survived far worse, and she would keep on surviving.

"I do not know-" She began, but Yara would not allow it.

"You know exactly of what I speak," the Lady of the Iron Islands seethed, "I name you for a liar, Sansa Stark."

"I cannot defend myself, if I do not know of what I am accused." Sansa redressed her, cool and quiet.

"Those innocent, soft babes are not my brother's children," said Yara, dark and dangerous.

Sansa shifted imperceptibly in her stiff chair, and refused to show any shame, dismay or surprise. She was determined to make Yara believe she had been deceived. Somehow, Sansa doubted Yara had ever seen Theon unclad as a man. As babes paddling in the rock-pools of Pyke, perhaps, but that was many years passed.

"They are," Sansa insisted.

"Horseshit," snapped Yara ruthlessly, "My father and I were given a certain gift from Ramsay Bolton."

Sansa shook her head slowly, not understanding Yara's meaning.

"A box containing a certain piece of my brother's body."

It took every ounce of Sansa's training, as a student of Baelish and Cersei and others like the Tyrells, to keep the horror from her face. Bile rose in her throat, but she found she was not entirely shocked. It would be exactly like Ramsay to do such a thing. But she could not quite believe Theon's misery had been compounded by such a harsh humiliation. No wonder he was so battered and bruised in his soul, and utterly unable to love or forgive himself. He was hounded on all sides, long after Ramsay was gone.

Sansa gradually allowed her eyes to widen.

"Ramsay sent you skin?" she said, purposefully misunderstanding, "But how do you know it was Theon's skin?"

Yara opened her mouth, no doubt to angrily announce exactly which body part she was inferring to, and then snapped it shut with wide eyes. "I- I- but. But he never..."

"Never what?"

"I didn't see him fuck a woman in all the time we sailed to Meereen."

Sansa blinked heavily and took a delicate sip of wine. "And what of it?"

Yara was stumped at that, and Sansa vindicated. Of course Theon had never spoken of the horror of Ramsay's torments in any detail, to anyone. And anyone who might have seen it first hand had persished, in the Battle of the Bastards, or skirmishes with the dead.

"I am still not inclined to believe you," Yara warned her, and she stuck about in Winterfell to prove just that.

But Sansa was not worried. The North had convinced themselves they saw Theon in his namesake, and her daughter. The children had been blessed with pale blue eyes, similar enough to his own, and waves of red hair that lightened in the sun to a sandier colour than Sansa's locks. Sansa had lost count of the young men, those who had been the sons of her father's guardsmen, who had commented on how her little Theon's smile was just like his father's. How he bounced about with the same wild enthusiasm. It was easy, so easy to forget the truth. Sansa had buried it so far inside she had almost convinced herself, at least until Yara was beneath her nose, sharing Theon's thin lips and wry smirks.

Sansa wanted to hate the woman for caring, but she knew that was unfair. What would she have done, if some strange woman she had never set eyes upon, claimed to have birthed Robb's son? Sansa would have wanted to see for herself, she knew it.

So she allowed Yara to stomp about Winterfell in her muddy boots, growling at everyone and glaring at Sansa's children.

"Aunt Yara is scary," said her little Theon Stark, "I asked her about father, and she said it was none of my affair what he was like. I'm his only son! How could it not be?"

"Hush," said Sansa, leaning close to plant a kiss upon his brow. "Take it not to heart. Yara Greyjoy keeps your father's memory close, as do I. She is only cautious about sharing it. He was the only man I ever loved, do you know that?"

Her children nodded seriously, their wide eyes captivated when Sansa spoke of their kin. They had never met Arya or Jon. She and Bran were all they knew, and now Yara, who was decidedly less friendly than they had hoped for. Her children had been thrilled at her arrival, but those feelings had quickly been soured by her clear disregard.

"It is hard, harder than you can possibly imagine, to lose a brother," said Sansa, "I should know; I have lost two, and it was agony each time. I pray you never lose one another, but we all die in the end."

"Is that why she's so mad all the time?" asked her daughter.

Sansa had considered naming her Alysanne; a nice traditional Northern name, or Lyanna, for the same reasons. But eventually, she had settled on Robbyn, in honour of her fallen brother, and Theon's closest friend in life. This was Sansa's small way of reuniting them again, and it thrilled her in a wistful sort of way, whenever her son Theon called out for his own 'Robb'.

"Some people are born furious, sweet girl," said Sansa, "Pay it no mind."

But it was not the truth, and Sansa knew it. Yara haunted her halls like an angry spirit for a full moon, before she announced she was leaving, as abruptly as she had arrived. Sansa had seen her speaking to the children only a handful of times, but her son had gushed about her consenting to speak of Theon Greyjoy a little, while helping him with his arrows. And she had urged Robbyn to learn too, though her daughter was more like Sansa had been as a girl, than Arya with her wilful ways.

"Will you not stay a little longer, Lady Yara?" she asked her, at a hastily thrown together feast, before she was to depart.

"No," said Yara shortly, throwing back a gulp of wine.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Sansa lied, "The children will miss you."

Yara narrowed her eyes dangerously, as though looking for mockery, but Sansa was truthful about that, in the least. At long length, Yara spoke again, with words more measured than usual.

"I'll never understand the ways of the green lands. They are too different to ours," she said slowly, but her voice was free from scorn, as though she was admitting that to be different was not necessarily to be lesser.

Sansa waited for her to continue, and was not disappointed.

"But my brother loved this place, though he tried to hide it," she said, "He came to fight for Winterfell because he loved you, all of you. He was proud to be a Stark, though he was never named for one."

"I buried him with a direwolf's head pin," Sansa admitted, "Tucked into the kraken in his leathers. He was both."

"I supposed he was," Yara mused.

For a while they sat in silence, as Sansa's bannerman drank and japed, their children skittering about with shrieking laughter.

"In your own way, you have honoured him," Yara admitted at last.

"I loved him," said Sansa, "And I keep his memory alive. But I will not live forever; none do. Who will remember him, after us, if not them?"

She nodded toward where her children were wrestling with Timett Karstark, a fosterling she had taken in two years past as a squire to Ser Podrick Payne. Podrick who advanced to be Winterfell's master-at-arms, and required the assistance. Yara watched her rambunctious children, whose blood was more free and Northern than they would ever know, and a small smile settled on her lips.

"A man should be remembered fondly, for the good he brought in his world," Yara said agreeably, raising her mug toward Sansa.

"Especially by his children," she finished, though her eyes told Sansa the older woman was not fooled.

But Yara forgave her enough to give Sansa her blessing, and that was more important. That was everything. Forgiveness was the only thing that mattered, in the end. Sansa raised her cup, and smiled as it clinked against her new friend's, and was content.


End file.
